


Little Bitches

by prettyboyporter



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Accidental Confession, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Season/Series 03, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23113837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyboyporter/pseuds/prettyboyporter
Summary: It took two rings before Steve picked up, voice honey and gravel. “Hey.”“Hi,” Billy said. He hadn’t anticipated how wrecked his own voice would sound.“What’s up?” Steve asked with a sharp inhale like he was sitting up now.“I’m. Ah.” Billy ran his fingers over the lid of the jewelry box. “I”m feelin like a fuckin bitch. Is all.”There was a short pause. “I’m coming over.”“No, Steve, you don’t have to do all that-”“Already getting dressed. Be there in ten.”He was there in seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 48
Kudos: 363
Collections: harringrove for Australia





	Little Bitches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AngeliqueH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeliqueH/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy, Sylvie! 
> 
> Written for harringrove for Australia

Billy sat slumped at his tiny kitchen table holding a secondhand coffee mug between his fingers. 

It was three am again. 

This battle was not unusual. Sometimes it was a nightmare that started it. Sometimes it was overthinking. Tonight, it started when he was unpacking in his little apartment and pulled out a wooden jewelry box. 

He remembered being little and looking up at the box on his mom’s vanity back in San Diego -- a dark brown box with pink flowers painted across the lid. His mom would reach in, delicate fingers plucking out a gold necklace. It shimmered on her neck and she smiled down at him -- beautiful. Always beautiful. 

A year ago, Neil had found the box in Billy’s room. He picked it up from the shelf where Billy had tried to hide it behind a row of books, but still Neil found it anyway. He had a nose for that kind of shit. He pulled it out and shoved Billy against the bookcase -- held it under Billy’s nose. _You’re a little bitch, just like her_ , he’d said calmly. Stated it as if it were fact, written in textbooks. He never spoke with words edged in anger -- that was one of the scariest things about him. One slap, two slaps, a shove to the ground, and a sharp boot kick to the stomach. _A little bitch holding onto a little bitch’s box,_ Neil had said down at Billy before the box landed on the floor in front of Billy’s face. 

It laid askew, lid open, contents spilled around it. Four necklaces. Three rings. Three bracelets. A few pairs of earrings. Billy scooped them up and carefully placed each item back in its spot, then hid it inside of a box of assorted stuff kept under his bed. 

He’d forgotten about the jewelry box until tonight -- until the moment he opened the cardboard box while unpacking to see a wooden lid and pink flowers. 

Sensory memories flooded his brain: the scent of Chanel when his mom was getting ready, the feel of her sprayed hair against his cheek, how she blotted her lipstick on a tissue and closed the lid before sweeping Billy up in a hug after Billy had told her she looked pretty. 

“A little bitch holding onto a little bitch’s box,” Billy said to himself in his apartment. 

And that was how tonight’s battle had started, with the box resting in Billy’s palms and the tears flowing. Words of self-loathing came back. _Those are your father’s words. Not yours. Not yours,_ he heard Doctor Owens’s voice saying in his head. That still didn’t stop the black cloud from forming in the mind -- the one that told him he was a pussy. That he meant nothing to anyone in this world. 

He took a sip of coffee and thought about calling Steve. 

Steve -- not Harrington, but Steve. _Y’know you can just call me Steve now. Pretty sure we’re past all of that bullshit. I mean I did see you **die**_ , he’d said at some point during the winter, rifling through the rows of comics. Billy worked at the comic book store next door to Family Video. 

Convenient, Billy thought as he took another sip. Convenient that as the temperatures warmed, so did Steve. January fell into February and then March with Steve chatting away and flipping through issues of X-Men and Superman, something he’d never readily admit that he did to anyone but Billy. Billy loitered at Steve’s work as well, picking up videos as a ruse because what he really wanted was on the other side of the checkout counter trying to stack tapes into a house out of sheer boredom. He was there to watch Steve stammer and fumble videos, to watch Steve’s long fingers wrapped around VHS cassette shells and daydream about those fingers sliding over Billy’s tongue, dipping down low between the sensitive area between his ass cheeks.

Convenient that they could take breaks in each other’s store, smoke out back together, shivering, huddling closer and closer as the winter weeks went by. Eventually they just gave up and started smoking in Steve’s car where it was warm. Where the blasting heat and tight space made the conversations feel like they’d been placed under a magnifying glass -- more intimate, somehow. 

Steve’s car was where he had given Billy his phone number -- a private line. 

The first time Billy heard Steve’s voice on the phone in the middle of the night started at ten thirty at night, a reasonable hour to just shoot the shit -- but then time ticked by, memories of the mall, both of them confessing something that the other still felt deep down, difficult feelings, monsters and nightmares and fears, anxieties brought forth out of fireworks, slimy skin, and dark pollen-filled tunnels, and before Billy knew it, it was almost three in the morning and he was bone tired but kept his eyelids open with Steve’s tired voice purring in his ear. 

Billy made a midnight phone call after waking from a nightmare. In the dream, Billy was in the cool, dark basement of Brimborn whispering down at a person who was writhing on the concrete, their wrists bound, and a hulking monster was at his shoulder. Steve called Billy after one in the morning when he’d been spooked by a sound coming from the woods. Billy came over that night and they sat diligently in the back of Steve’s house, Steve holding the bat with nails in it, Billy holding the machete that he’d plucked from Mr. Harrington’s office wall.

He started losing count after a while. They each had their midnight demons. Steve stayed over at Billy’s new place more than once, and part of Billy wondered if this wouldn’t be a beneficial roommate situation. 

Because if Steve was in the next room instead of on the other end of a ringing phone line, Billy would’ve felt a little better tonight. 

Billy thought of how much better he’d feel with Steve here now. He craved that validation. Steve was another guy who could tell Billy that coffee and tears over his mother’s jewelry box in the middle of the night didn’t make him a little bitch. 

So he picked up the phone from the kitchen wall and punched in the phone number that he knew by heart. 

It took two rings before Steve picked up, voice honey and gravel. “Hey.” 

“Hi,” Billy said. He hadn’t anticipated how wrecked his own voice would sound. 

“What’s up?” Steve asked with a sharp inhale like he was sitting up now. 

“I’m. Ah.” Billy ran his fingers over the lid of the jewelry box. “I”m feelin like a fuckin bitch. Is all.”

There was a short pause. “I’m coming over.” 

“No, Steve, you don’t have to do all that-”

“Already getting dressed. Be there in ten.” 

He was there in seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds. 

**~*~**

Steve sat with Billy at his kitchen table; the jewelry box lay on the table between them. His hair stuck up comically, and he’d pulled on a coat on top of his pajamas -- his green plaid pajamas. 

Even in fucking green plaid pajamas with rooster hair, Billy still found Steve unbearably attractive. 

“Must be hard, seeing it again,’ Steve said as his fingers skimmed the lid. 

“Neil found it last year.” 

Steve glanced up sharply at Billy. Billy had shared some of the stories over the winter, when no one was in the comic book store. Steve had sat perched on a stool next to Billy behind the counter. One by one Billy told the stories and Steve listened -- each example of trauma felt like releasing a burden, as if each one was one of the poisonous pollen tufts floating in the place Steve had described as the Upside-Down, each memory released from his mouth, floating off into the universe and unburdening his soul a little bit. 

“What’d he do?” Steve asked.

Billy shrugged. “Exactly what you think he fuckin would.”

Steve drank deeply from his coffee cup. “Fuck Neil Hargrove. Seriously. Fuck that guy. This right here,” Steve tapped the lid, “this is who you are. You’re _her_. Why do you think she left it?”

“In a hurry to get the fuck out.” 

“Right. Yeah. I mean, probably.” Steve leaned forward and placed his hand on top of Billy’s wrist. “But maybe she wanted you to have it. Y’know? Maybe she knew you’d keep it. This is her -- her spirit. She was a fighter. She got away from him, and so did you, Billy. You’re a fighter too.”

Billy nodded and thought about how his mom threw plates at Neil -- how she’d finally gained the courage to run and never fucking look back. 

He didn’t blame her. He’d missed her and it fucking hurt, but he didn’t blame her. 

“I wish-” Billy said. He felt his throat grow thick. “Wish I woulda kept in contact. Wish I could find her again.” He slid his hand up on top of Steve’s. “I haven’t heard from her in four years. If only she grabbed me on the way out, y’know?” He felt he could go on -- that he could dive into an entire ocean of fantasy what-ifs, but thought he’d likely just end up swimming too far and getting lost and all of that was just too much at this moment. “Woulda been nice.” 

“Maybe you can find her. If you wanted to. Not too late, Bills.”

Billy sniffed and pulled his hand out to wipe the tears. “Ah shit. I’m so fucking messed up, man. She wouldn’t want fuck all to do with me. I mean. I know I wouldn’t if I was in her shoes.” 

Steve moved his hand from Billy’s wrist up so that it was covering Billy’s hand. “Never know till you try.” 

Steve’s finger started to caress between Billy’s index and middle finger, gradually working further down between them. Billy’s heart started hammering at the sensation. He tried spreading the two fingers apart just a bit, and that was all it took -- Steve laced his fingers through Billy’s. 

Billy tried to get his break through the litany of _he’s holding my hand he’s holding my hand_ to refocus on the conversation. “Maybe someday I’ll try to find her. I’m too fucking close to feeling like a monster still.” 

Steve ran his thumb over Billy’s, back and forth -- the sensation was soothing and was honestly making Billy’s cock stir in his sweatpants. “Wanna get out of here for a few? Go for a drive?” 

Nothing sounded quite so good to Billy. Get out of his place, out of his head, get into Steve’s car. He wondered if Steve would maybe hold his hand again or if this was just a buddy comforting a buddy, but he knew that if, fucking, Keith or someone tried to lace his fingers through Billy’s he’d lay Keith out flat. So. There was that. 

“Yeah. Let’s go.” 

**~*~**

Billy closed the door to the beemer as he stepped out into the forest. The trees around them stood sentinel at the edges of the clearing, dark and looming. On any other night, Billy would’ve felt their presence to be creepy and unnerving. Tonight, though, with Steve spreading a ratty blanket he’d pulled from the trunk on the grass, he felt _safe_. His face was still warm from exhaustion and emotion, but the cool night air pulled him out of the basement of his thoughts and into the present -- into his surroundings, here. With Steve. 

Steve sat down heavily and pulled a flask from his jacket. He patted the ground next to him as he looked up at Billy. 

Billy plopped down next to Steve -- sat close to him in the chill of the early morning air. 

Steve took a long drink from the flask, then handed it over to Billy. 

“God damn,” Billy said as the burn of whisky washed down his throat. It tasted peaty and rich -- tasted like _money_. “This is some good shit, Stevie.”

Steve took back the flask and drank. “Gotta drink it while I can. I don’t think I’m gonna be able to sneak it for much longer.”

“Why not?”

Steve shrugged and furrowed his brows -- it took him a moment to start speaking. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. And I think I might move out soon. Got a bit saved up. I’m not heading to college. I don’t know how much more of my dad’s bitching I can take, yknow? I figure as soon as I’m out of the house I’ll be less of a burden on my parents. For them, I'll be out of sight, out of mind.” Those last six words were spoken _tightly_. Steve had this pinched tone sometimes when his parents hurt him deeply and he was trying to bury it in that infuriating way that he tended to do. 

Billy leaked emotions like a sieve. He showed it in bruises and punches, bloody knuckles and tears. Even when the mind flayer had control of Billy, it still couldn’t hold back Billy’s tears -- he’d always been like that. Steve was the opposite side of the coin, though -- he kept his emotions held tightly in check, buried deep down in his chest, retained by a concrete wall. Billy took a deep drink, and knocked his knee once against Steve’s and handed over the flask. “To being a forgotten son.” 

Steve huffed a laugh and looked over at Billy as he took a drink. “To forgotten sons like us,” he said, tilting the flask at Billy. “So. Know anyone looking for a roommate?” 

Billy shrugged. “Maybe you should check the classifieds in the Hawkins Post? Bet there are a few lonely broads lookin for some company.” 

“Oh. Right. I mean, sure, I just thought,” Steve started doing his little nervous ramble, staring down intently at the flask as he tapped his fingers on it, fidgeting. “Maybe. Like that you might need someone to share your rent payment. And yknow. Help clean up. Half the time I’m at your place anyway? Might just be easier if I stayed, is what I was thinking.” 

“Jesus christ, Steve,” Billy laughed. “I was just fuckin with ya. Sure, I could use a roommate. If you want out of John and Susan Harrington’s palace of misery, pack a box and come on over. My shithole could use some King Steve magic.” 

Relief washed over Steve’s face. “Oh! Oh thank god. Like I really was thinking you might have a hangup about having someone in your personal space,” Steve continued quickly, and Billy braced himself for another awkward parade of words while Steve verbally worked out his pent-up anxieties. “Because I know if I had my own little place that belonged to me and no one else I might feel a little weird about it, you know? Like you’re used to coming home and doing what you want and working through your own shit on your own time and not worrying about having a roommate to tiptoe around. Especially if that person is in love with you.”

Billy felt like he’d just been hit with a brick. Steve went wide-eyed and looked absolutely _panicked_ by his own words. 

“Fuck! I mean. I meant! I didn’t mean _me_.” Steve rubbed his hand down the back of his neck and looked like he was about to stand up and flee the scene of a crime, started jamming the flask back into his inner coat pocket. Like he’d just committed murder or something. “I wasn’t talking about myself there just like, a hypothetical girl, or something, like a girl roommate because that might be weird, right? Haha! Imagine if some chick was your roommate and she was in love with you how awkward would that be? I mean. Fuck.” 

“Steve?” Billy said quietly. 

“Sorry, god. Sorry. I didn’t mean it.” Steve swallowed heavily and his voice went tight. “I didn’t mean _me_.”

“ _Steve_ ,” Billy said forcefully. He placed his hand on Steve’s knee. 

“Yeah?” Steve’s chest was rising and falling rapidly -- he looked as if he were about to cry. 

Billy waited patiently until Steve settled a bit. Steve took his time keeping his eyes fixed downward at spot on the blanket until finally he lifted his gaze to look at Billy’s face -- his expression looked pained.

Billy leaned forward and pressed his lips to Steve’s. 

Steve inhaled sharply and his hands came up to Billy’s coat, gathering up the material there and bunching it up in his fists. “Oh my god,” he said when he pulled back momentarily. He leaned forward again eagerly, dropping his hands to the ground and surging up to his knees to press his advantage. One of his hands came up to rest on the side of Billy’s neck, and the other went back into his hair, fingers splaying, tugging gently as Steve kissed Billy’s lips over and over. 

Steve was kissing Billy with such hunger -- as if he’d been let loose _finally_ and made up with enthusiasm all of the days and months he’d been denied Billy’s lips. Billy let Steve control it. 

Being kissed by Steve felt like _heaven_ to Billy. He’d only kissed a handful of people over the years -- girls who he had to act as if that there was nothing more he wanted than to have their lipstick smeared across his lips, their mouths soft and pliant and giving under his down. Kissing was a charade -- a great act of what Billy thought he was _supposed_ to want. What he _should_ desire. What he actually wanted laid buried in the dark corners of his mind, only for Billy to know. A place safe from Neil. 

When Billy was 13 back in San Diego, his best friend Gary had kissed him. It started when Billy had confessed to Gary how empty he felt after his mom’s departure. Gary met Billy at the beach to surf with him, to help distract him -- gave him a Coke and three cigarettes, then after Billy smiled and said _thanks_ , Gary pressed a feather-light kiss to the corner of Billy’s mouth, and Billy did the only thing he knew how to do -- he punched his way through his feelings. He left Gary with a bloody nose and walked away with that shitty feeling in his chest for years. Regret. Sadness. A heavy dose of self-loathing. 

It was the same shitty feeling he’d had after he saw how badly he fucked up Steve’s face last winter. Steve’s black eyes and scabbed face left Billy’s heart bruised and aching. 

Here in the forest, Steve’s lips pressing on Billy’s, shifting, soft yet demanding, felt like forgiveness. Felt strong but so gentle. Steve touched Billy like that, too -- traced Billy’s jaw like it was delicate porcelain. 

Billy reached up to touch Steve’s hair -- finally able to do what he’d wanted to do for months now and run his fingers through the brown locks as Steve ran his hands down the side of Billy’s neck while he kissed him. 

Steve made this _sound_ in the back of his throat, this little whimper. He pulled back to smile against Billy’s mouth -- huffed a little laugh. “Jesus fucking christ I wanted to do that for so long.” 

Billy grabbed a handful of that horrific green plaid pajama top in his fist and held Steve close. Steve playfully pulled back, sly little grin on his lips, but Billy held him tight. “Wanted it forever and already done with me? Where’s that fire, pretty boy?” 

Steve’s eyes went dark. “You want fire, baby?” He lowered his lips to Billy’s jaw -- placed an open-lipped, wet kiss there. “Because I’ll give you fire.” He licked a slow path up to Billy’s mouth -- licked past Billy’s lips and touched his tongue to Billy’s. He let loose a high moan when Billy moved his hand to the back of Steve’s pajamas and palmed the round curve of Steve’s ass. 

Billy started to lean back to the ground slowly and Steve followed him down, chasing Billy’s lips. Billy spread his legs apart and let Steve settle between them. 

Steve’s hand came up to rest on Billy’s knee as he kissed him, pressing him down into the blanket. The air smelled earthy, of wet leaves and damp dirt and the new growth of spring. Billy had learned the term _petrichor_ in his senior English class -- a wet earth smell. Rain falling on dry ground. Billy felt deeply connected to that concept in this moment. This was his own personal petrichor, Billy thought. He felt grateful for it -- grateful that the mind flayer didn’t kill him after all. During a few dicey days in the hospital he felt disconnected from his body. Like he wasn’t even a part of his own existence. If there was an opposite to that feeling he’d had, it was _this_. 

It was being pinned to the earth in the forest by Steve Harrington.

It was Steve’s brown eyes with his hair sticking up everywhere, lips plump and dark pink from Billy’s kisses. “You’re so good,” Steve said quietly, like he was trying to keep it a secret from the trees lest they try to steal Billy away from him. “So good, baby, god.” Billy had never felt more connected to his body in his entire _life_. 

Dew dotted the blades of grass -- Billy could feel the moisture against the back of his hands when Steve entwined their fingers and lifted Billy’s hands above his head. 

Billy felt laid bare, even through the jacket. Even through the sweatpants and t-shirt -- felt naked under Steve’s gaze. 

Steve took a moment to pull back on his knees and let go of Billy’s hands. He ran his fingers up under the edge of Billy’s t-shirt and glanced up. His fingers stopped there. “Can I?” 

Billy hooked one of his feet behind Steve’s calf and nodded. 

Steve lifted a few inches of shirt up Billy’s abdomen, exposing pale skin that was desperately in need of the summer sun. The scars that littered his belly and sides, though -- _those_ stood out silvery-white in the moonlight. Ghost leaf-shapes of all different sizes, all over. 

Steve ran his fingers over one of the scars, and leaned down to lightly rub his lips over it before planting a firm kiss on it. “They’re so beautiful,” he said. His voice was full of awe. 

They looked effulgent now; they looked in this moment like they moonlight was emanating from them. Billy thought maybe that’s what he was now -- maybe he was a son of the moon, the light pouring from his hard-won scars. 

Steve worked his way up, kissed up Billy’s abdomen until he got to the large scar at the center of his chest that looked like a silvery-cream colored starfish and kissed there before anchoring his arms under Billy’s back. He surged up and kissed Billy’s lips at the same time as settling his hips firmly against Billy’s. 

Billy felt the long, hard press of Steve’s dick against his own. “Fuck,” he pulled back from Steve’s lips to say.

Steve pumped his hips again -- hard length of his dick alongside Billy’s. “Yeah?” 

“God yeah,” Billy said and hooked his foot behind Steve’s ass, encouraging. “ _Steve_.” 

Steve leaned down again to kiss Billy as he thrust against Billy and it felt fantastic but was nowhere near enough -- the amount of clothes they were wearing was _infuriating_ and Billy wanted more -- wanted to feel Steve’s dick in his hand. He wanted to feel its hardness directly against his skin. 

He was about to suggest hiking their pants down when a voice cut them off from above their heads. “What kind of faggot shit is this?”

Steve sat up sharply, pulling back, but Billy scrambled up to his feet to find himself looking down at Tommy Hagan.

Tommy looked like he’d just won the fucking state lottery. He cackled once. “I knew it,” he sneered. “I always knew you were some sort of twisted queer.” 

“Fuck off, Tommy,” Steve said from the ground.

It only just then occurred to Billy that Tommy was looking over Billy’s shoulder and talking only to Steve, who was still sitting on the blanket with all of the color drained from his face. 

Billy shoved Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy’s eyes snapped up to Billy’s. “Jealous?” 

Tommy scoffed. “Jealous of two faggots playing tummy sticks in the woods? Hah.” He squared up in front of Billy, eyes full of fury. “How. Fucking. Sick.”

Billy leaned down close to Tommy’s face, and that was when he saw it. That’s when he saw not fear or anger, but _sadness_. Billy had masked that expression one too many times to not recognize it when he saw it. He spoke quietly. “You _wanted_ him. You _still_ want him.” 

Tommy’s nostrils flared and he remained silent. 

Billy gestured to the woods around them. “You wanted him but you ain’t got him.” 

“You think you’re something special? You’re just poor white trash.” Tommy shoved Billy’s shoulders.

“Oooh. Ya _got_ me, buddy. That really fuckin hurt. You’re just out here making a scene like some little jealous bitch.” He stepped back a couple of times feeling like it was about time for this whole thing to be over. “Move along, Thomas. You’re interrupting my date.” 

The punch started as if in slow-motion. Tommy formed a fist and wound up, but Billy fully anticipated it and ducked quickly. That left Tommy off-balance so when Billy’s left fist connected with Tommy’s jaw, Tommy fell hard on his ass to the ground. 

He touched his jaw once and steadied himself, then went in for another punch. Every move Tommy made felt so obvious to Billy, though. He stepped aside and grabbed Tommy’s arm that he’d used to throw the punch, then wrenched it up behind Tommy’s back in the classic _say uncle_ move. 

Billy held him from moving. His grip wasn’t overly-aggressive, though. 

“Stupid fucking California trash,” Tommy said. “How’s it feel to get Nancy Wheeler’s sloppy seconds?” 

“I really wasn’t lookin to get in a fight tonight. See him?” Billy pointed over Tommy’s shoulder at Steve. “See that pretty boy over there? I was just starting to finally get in those plaid pajama pants but you had to step in and fuck it _all up_. He wrenched Tommy’s arm up a little higher -- but then he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

Steve stood next to Billy’s side. “Cmon Billy,” he said, and looked over sadly at Tommy. “Let’s go home.” 

Billy released Tommy’s arm and stared him down for a second. He thought about making threats to keep Tommy quiet, but honestly, if all of Hawkins found out about Billy, what did he fucking care? Neil was long gone -- he fucked off to god knows where after Billy returned from the hospital. Billy worked for the comic book store owner who he was _pretty_ sure was a lesbian, so no sweat there. Honestly, Billy couldn’t find it in himself to care what anyone else might think. Tommy could go blabbing to whoever he wanted. 

As they pulled away they saw Tommy’s tail lights in the distance. Somewhere deep down, he did feel a pang of empathy. Being queer in a little town _really_ did suck. 

**~*~**

The sun poured in through the bedroom curtains as Steve lay down in bed with Billy -- ready to fall asleep at eight in the morning with stomachs full of pancakes and bacon and some tired yet enthusiastic handjobs. Exhaustion clouded Billy’s brain and he wondered if seeing Steve lying next to him was actually happening. If it all wasn’t some sort of dream. 

Billy touched his fingers to Steve’s jaw -- heard the light rasp of stubble over his fingers. “Are you real? Are you here right now? Or am I dreaming, pretty boy?”

Steve took Billy’s hand and kissed his fingers, then held them against his chest. “Real as can be, baby.” 

They remained still and quiet. The morning crept in around them on cat feet, so stealth and quiet. Steve’s eyes closed and he drifted off to sleep. 

The sunlight caught on the small diamond stud earring in Steve’s ear that Billy had given him earlier -- right from his mother’s jewelry box. 

If being a little bitch meant radiating beauty like his mother did, and meant that Billy wanted to share that beauty with Steve as they wore her matching diamond studs, then so be it. 

Billy was proud that they were little bitches.

**Author's Note:**

> prettyboyporter on tumblr


End file.
